


Reasonable Doubt

by erniedee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 14:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erniedee/pseuds/erniedee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is dealing badly without Sherlock. Greg tries to lighten the mood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reasonable Doubt

There were only a few things John believed in conclusively; that our universe is heliocentric and that Sherlock Holmes died doing something idiotically noble. He’d been through all the possible permutations of the circumstances leading up to Sherlock trying to defraud himself on the roof, and they all screamed that something else was going on. Of course, Sherlock would have seen through a plot like this in seconds, but John wasn’t Sherlock. No, John, for all the things he was, he couldn’t pull facts out of seemingly thin air and call them obvious. Without Sherlock, he felt useless, like half of a brilliantly designed machine, still and lifeless without his match. 

John was sitting in his armchair, his bad leg (which had recently decided to be bad again) propped up on the rickety coffee table in front of him, staring at that fucking violin case on that fucking chair, wondering how a dead man could occupy so much space. The apartment was the same as it was when Sherlock was around, cluttered and stuffy, but so distinctly theirs that John hadn’t the heart to change it. And if he was honest with himself, a part of him would always have reasonable doubt that Sherlock was actually gone. Given that, John knows, as a doctor, that a corpse should be definitive proof, but somehow it still wasn’t enough, there was still something he had missed. So, there were still two razors in the bathroom cabinet (one electric and the other an actual blade), two toothbrushes, and two sets of products (John’s being mostly generic and Sherlock’s being surprisingly expensive). John didn’t move his papers or his compositions, he simply lived around the things that cemented Sherlock to his world and for now that had to be enough.

He heard the outer door downstairs slam shut, given the time of day and that his visitor was taking the stairs two by two, it was either Greg checking in, or one of Mycroft’s lackeys. He didn’t get up to open the door, honestly, he couldn’t be arsed about reassuring Lestrade because to his mind, a lot of this fiasco was his fault. If Greg had told Donovan and Anderson to stuff it and went with his gut, the same instincts that brought him to trust Sherlock in the first place, all this might have gone very differently. And if it was one of Mycroft’s people, well, like it or lump it, he didn’t have much choice over what happened next. Bloody Holmes brothers don’t give you a choice in anything. 

John sighed and rubbed his face with his hands as Lestrade sheepishly poked into the room. 

“Mrs. Hudson let me in.”

“Oh. Right. Glad you’re here.” John said with a very wide, very fake smile. 

“No you’re not.”

“You’re right, I’m not. But you came any way, so spit it out and then piss off.” John didn’t sound angry, just very tired. Normally he was the one making excuses for Sherlock being curt or rude. John had always been mild mannered and quiet, easy to smile, but after all of this, it didn’t seem worth the effort. 

“You’re not answering your mobile.” As the words left his mouth, clearly Greg knew how lame they sounded. He grimaced, though it may have been meant as a smile, and moved to brush aside the violin case and sit in the chair across from John. 

“Don’t!” John jumped up and startled the piss out of Greg. He raised his eyebrows but didn’t argue further, hands raised like he was dealing with a gunman rather than a sleep deprived friend. John sat back down in his chair and Lestrade decided that the computer chair might be safest. 

“You look like a bag of dirt.” Greg said sympathetically. Though given the state he was in himself, perhaps he shouldn’t have criticized. There were bags under his eyes that made it look like he’d lost a bar fight, three or four days worth of graying stubble accumulating on his sallow face and clothing that looked in urgent need of care. Not an inspiring sight at the best of times and bloody disgraceful if he was on duty. 

John looked him up and down and left a long pause hanging between them. Silence turned into snickering, which turned into full blown hysterics and what ever the circumstances, John thought, it felt good to laugh.


End file.
